


A Soft Hand

by redseeker



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Bondage, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Kink Meme, Spark Sex, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:25:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redseeker/pseuds/redseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old fic. Written for the (old) kink meme. Prompt was a willingly submissive Megatron paired with anyone but Starscream or Optimus, and including bondage and animalistic behaviours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Soft Hand

The throne room, as it was informally called, was empty save for the two of them. The throne’s sharp edges threw the shadows around the stark space with a strange authority. It was a massive thing, all heavy sculpted black, high-backed, and just a little too tall for Blackarachnia's feet to reach the ground. She seemed tiny sitting in it, the seat too wide for her hips, the back too tall for her small frame. Even so, she leaned back and luxuriated in the sense of occupying so iconic a space, and revelled in the power that must necessarily come with such a position.  
  
She placed her hands on the throne’s arms and let her claws curl lightly over the edges. She crossed one leg over the other and placed the spiked heel of her top foot on the shoulder of the mech that knelt at her feet. A little self-satisfied smirk curled her lips, and all four optics dimmed and narrowed as Megatron turned his head, and lifted a hand, loosely holding her tiny ankle and kissing the inside of it with rare gentleness that hinted at almost genuine affection. She abruptly pulled her foot out of his grasp and hooked it over his shoulder, using her calf and foot in tandem with a sharp tug on the chain around his neck to pull him closer. With his head a breath away from her belly she lifted her hips and spread her thighs a little wider, making room for his bulky frame. She pulled the chain up, leading him like a docile pet, and leaned down to kiss him when he was close enough. He parted his lips in an instant and she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, tasting the expensive oil they’d consumed together only a breem or two previous. She daringly nipped his lip with her fangs and squirmed at the deep rumble of pleasure he let out, apparently inadvertently.  
  
She frequently marvelled at what he let her do. No, not what he let her do – what he _wanted_ her to do. He never gave any instruction, never vocalised exactly what he wanted, but she seemed to hit on it all the same. It was as though their desires dovetailed perfectly – her taste for worshipful adoration and the outcast’s hunger for power, his secret, shameful craving to hand the reins of power to another. When she joined his army she would never have imagined her mighty leader – so charming, so frightening, so naturally in control – would get off on playing the slave, especially to her master. But she adopted the role more easily than she had ever played any other – be it do-gooding academy bot, deferential femme, or even sparkless, embittered ‘Con – and gradually became more and more confident with their strange, clandestine arrangement. She rather suspected, somewhere deep in her processor, that he and Starscream had had a similar setup, at some point. She wondered, therefore, if the jet’s betrayal had cut their leader deeper than he ever let show.  
  
Still kissing him – and how he seemed to melt against her, his plating already warm to the touch – she absently wound the chain around her hand until only a short length remained. His wrists were bound too, though loosely; she liked seeing the cuffs on him, but also liked him to be able to use his hands when she told him to. As such, each wrist was encircled by a thick cuff, and connected by another length of heavy-duty chain.  
  
She broke the kiss and, abruptly, pushed his helm down, hooking both her legs over his shoulders now. He was well enough trained to know exactly what to do. She had initially been thrilled to discover that his talented mouth, his silver tongue, weren’t only good for silky oratory. She shifted happily as his tongue slipped inside her port, seeking out all the delicate sensors and wire bundles that he knew drove her crazy. His hands came up to loosely hold her hips, and she instinctively tightened her thighs against his helm, holding him close. He worked her to overload quickly – so eager to please – and she arched her back and sighed, squirming luxuriantly as the warm little aftershocks thrummed through her body. He lapped hungrily at the fluids – mechanical and otherwise – that now slicked her port, continuing until she was clean and pleasantly slumped in the throne’s surprisingly comfortable embrace.  
  
He only moved away when she pushed him, again with the spike of her heel. She knew he was aching to be touched – she could feel the heat and pull of his strong spark, even with his chest-plates closed – but he knew the rules. Her overload always came first, and then after, if she felt like it, she would return the favour.  
  
She leaned her elbow on one of the throne’s arms and rested her head in her hand for a moment, looking down at him with a fondness that overload often brought on in her. He looked up at her expectantly, still just barely trembling, eyes burning a dark crimson. She was the only one who ever saw him like this – except perhaps, of course, Starscream, long ago – and there was something in that she treasured. More privilege than intimacy, she found Megatron’s strange submissive devotion a whole lot more appealing than she ever had Grimlock’s obsequious fixation. She loved attention in any form, but to become the idol of a mech she actually respected, even feared, beat the slag out of any primitive grunt’s short-sighted adoration.  
  
Once they were finished they would return to their usual roles. In the presence of the rest of the troop he would be Megatron, the great and terrible, who took orders from no mech – and certainly not from a presumptuous mongrel femme like her. She in turn would be the borderline apathetic but capable soldier. She would follow his commands with good grace. There would be no secret looks, no searing tension, no outward admission at all of what went on between them when alone.  
  
“All right,” she said. She leaned forward, shifting to sit on the very edge of the throne, and took his helm in both her hands. She kissed him harder than before, and he even kissed her back, though always hesitantly, deferentially. His hands slid up her thighs, settled on her waist, thumbs circling as he squeezed lightly, absently. She allowed them to stay there. She had to forcibly push him away to break this kiss, and for a moment she could only relish the look of lost, desperate hunger on his face. She smiled a slow, fanged smile and slid one small hand over his heated armour to rest atop the brand in the centre of his chest. Directly beneath it she could feel his spark straining, pulsing, energy licking up against the other side of the metal. His vents were cycling double speed, but he was still quiet, fighting to be still. “Open.” His chest-plates slid open before she had even finished the command, and she found her hand bathed in searing, crackling arcs of blue-white electricity. His spark was overwhelming in its potency, but he always tried so hard to keep it in check, except when she allowed him to completely let go.  
  
He leaned into her touch as she brushed and teased the arcing current with her sharp fingertips, and she saw that his teeth were clenched, his optics half shuttered. She pressed a few kisses to the cabling at the side of his neck, and he obligingly tilted his head. She was gradually working her hand further into the heat in the centre of his chest, closer to the chamber at his core, teasing hyper-sensitised components and wires on her way. He was moving, just instinctive, desperate little shifts into and away from her touch, as he alternated between hungering for more and shying away from the intensity.  
  
She continued to tease him for a while, enjoying driving him to distraction with such an easy touch. His hands had found their way to her hips again, and his grip kept tightening and loosening , and it would have been painful if it weren’t so Primus-damned erotic.  
  
Just when she thought he might break from the tension, she decided to be merciful. She thrust her hand forward, deeper into him than she’d touched before, and wrapped it firmly around his white-hot core, at the same time biting down hard on a thick cable in the side of his neck. The effect was instantaneous – he gave a great gasping roar and shuddered against her, and his spark flared out, burning her hand and sending eager, frantic tongues of energy crackling against her own chest and triggering a second overload in her. He always overloaded hard, and this time was no exception. Wracked with pleasure they clung to one another until both had ridden out their long, shaking climaxes.  
  
They remained entangled as they came slowly down off their shared high. Blackarachnia, still in the throne, had her legs wrapped around Megatron’s waist, one arm hooked around his neck, the other still buried deep inside his chest. Megatron still clung to her hips, and leaned against her chest with a sleepy docility that somehow made her spark warm all over again.  
  
It was with a great force of effort that she was able to extricate herself from him and push him roughly to the floor with a husky “Get off me”. He didn’t complain – barely even registered it, she thought, since he seemed to still be floating in the pleasant warmth of his afterglow. Chest-plates still splayed open, he settled at the throne’s base, one hand on her knee, cheek resting drowsily against her thigh. She leaned back, letting her whole body relax for a few kliks – soon the others would return. Neither of them said anything more.


End file.
